Jasper County Democrat, Volume 6, Number 6, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 May 1903 — MICHAEL [ARTICLE]

MICHAEL

« HB had Juat returned from the crowded concert hall, where she m** had enjoyed a veritable triumph. Har face was flushed and smiling, and Bhe atlll held In her hands the great hoeqeet of rosea—her favorite flower — which had been given her as she left the platform. She was recalled to her •BBOtmdlnga by the voice of her maid, Fanchon. “There is a telegram for mad ame on the table,” she said. Denise picked it ap; It was addressed to “Mrs. Flelden," which was unusual. She was known to the London world and her friends as “Madame Elena.” She opened it sharply. It was brief and to the point: “I think it la right to let you know that the boy Is seriously ill.—Michael.” Unconsciously she crushed the message In her hand, and her thoughts flew to the Lincolnshire village where It had heen written. She saw again the flat tea-land, the long stretches of empty wastes, which she had grown to loathe, timost to fear; nil the grayness and barrenness which were so antagonistic to Mr gay, beauty-loving nature. Then the •cent of the roses smote her shandy, she saw the luxury of her own surroundings, the signs of taste and monagr everywhere, and turning to the maid, ■he cried: “Bring me an ‘A. R. C.’ and pack a hag. I am going Into the country.” “Shall I attend, madameV" “No, l don’t know how long I shall be away. I will write.” Her lips twitched aa she thought of the fashionable French maid In - the bare manorhouse with old Hannah for company. “I wonder If he Is really very 111?” ehe pondered, ns she sat in the train. “I think Michael would scarcely have aent for me unless lie were. The meeting will be as awkward and uncomfortable for him as for me. Poor little Michael —what a name to give a child! —I wonder what he is like now? He was not a pretty or interesting child. I remember be was always crying.” There was no one lo meet her when she arrived, hut that she did not expect, though the village fly had been sent to the station on the chance of her com*>g. After a drive of nearly an hour she recognized a familiar gateway; she remembered the old coat-of-arms cut In he stonework, though she could not see Hi now, with the motto, “I live! I die!” that was nil the Eieldens had been Tietag for generations. It was a decay®s** race, and they laid not had the energy, or perhaps the power, to stop the n(ln that was creeping on them, and the man who lived there now had grown sear and bitter with his balked life. “Master is upstairs,” old Ilanieih said distantly, in reply to Denise’s greeting. “He hoped you would excuse him eomtag down, but the child is very restless to-night, and can’t well be left. If you will please to sit down and take something I will tell him you are here." And ■he opened the door of a room where a frugal meal was laid. “I dou’t want anything, thank you," Denise said, hastily. “I will go up at wee If I may,” and before Hannah roold raise any objection she was half Way up the stairs. Bhe beard a murmur from the oak bedroom, where the head of the house was always born and where most of them had died, and tapping lightly on the door she went In. No one had heard her, and for an lusiant she stood as though arrested on the threshold. What a great room It was! And bow solitary those two figures looked In it! “1 am sorry to trouble you,” the man oaM, getting up ns she moved. “I am afraid you have had a long, tiring journey; but 1 thought you ought to know.” “You did quite right,” she said, thickly. What a pitiful, little shrunken form ft was, looking almost lost in the vast •ak bedstead, of which it was a tradition that each successive Flelden should carve a panel, so that It had always ■waned to Denise a weird resting-place, belonging to tlie dead rather than the Ivhig. She hud woke up more than •nee on a moonlight night fancying ghostly lingers had come back to finish what here and there had been left Incomplete. “Oh, you poor little soul!” she cried, o oob iu her voice, and the next mo■Mnt her arms were over the bed, and Aft little figure was gathered to her breost, where she crooned over It, calling her baby, her little Michael, whom A* had treated so badly, reproaching boroelf and showering soft kisses on (be wan face in the same breath. “H* is very weak; you must not excite him,” a warning voice said. She bad forgotten that any one was there, Hid the calm, measured tones were like o rebuff. The old feeling of restraint cad tear held her for a moment, but fjhe mother love, which had woke up for the first iime at sight of the forlorn, ■offering child, rose stronger than anything else. “I shall not hurt him," she said, boldtog the boy close to her breast. “See, bolt already more content.” The little Ac* certainly looked less tired and hrwhled, and one wasted arm bad gone ■p around her neck, while he made hlm■off at home as a matter of course in Aooe unknown arms. . “Has he been long like this?” she adhed. “You ought to have told me a* “Bo was never strong, as you may re atppaher,” be answered coldly “He Am not-take after my family; he pines < An warmth' and sunshine, aa you did. 1 aanat remind you that you have never omm me reason to think you took any particular Inter eat In him. 1 was not

at all certain that you would come now.” j, “Not come!” she exclaimed. Then she remembered. “I beg your pardon,” she said humbly; you are quite right It Is I who am to blame —I who am In the wrong. But—but,” her voice growing husky, “I did not know he wanted me so badly. I was so young when I went away—l am not very old now—and I did not understand many things. Perhaps If you bad reasoned with me—ls you bad pointed out “Do you think I wanted a captive Instead of a wife?” be asked harshly. “I saw how you fretted and pined like a caged creature; I saw the hunted look In your eyes; I knew you would wear your life out in a little If It went on.” . “It was so dull —so dreary,” she murmured, “and nobody wanted me, not even you, I think, after a little while. I interrupted your studies; I was restlcfs and disturbed your routine, so when my legney came It seemed to open a way of escape. I thought it was better for us to go our own road before we learned to hate each other. I had a gift, only one, hut It would not let me rest until I had tried what It was worth. I ought not to have married.” “No doubt It was a mistake, but In Justice I must say that that was more my fault than yours. 1 was years older, and I took advantage of your youth and Ignorance to fasten a bond on you of which you did not understand the import. No doubt you knew yourself best. You have the life that suits you; you were free to go your own way.” “As you yours." “As I mine.” Something In the voice made Denise move uneasily. For six years the man and the child had lived here together; her husband, her child. For six years she had nearly forgotten. them both; not quite, though she had tried to do so. The man and the child had been growing old together—without love or happiness—while she had laughed and sung. There was nothing young in the hr se—not even the little form she held iu her arms. A week had passed, and little Michael, thinks (as the doctor plainly said) to his mother’s devoted nursing and the Interest she created In the child's mind, was picking up his frail life again. He was never tired of looking at her, or admiring all the pretty things that gathered about her as a matter of course; he had never seen so many flowers, so much dainty luxury in his brief existence. “’You use these every day?” he asked in an awed voice, as he amused himself with the silver pots aqd bottles on her dressing tnble. “Yes, every day,” she said with a gay little laugh. “Do you think I am very extravagant?” “Father hasn't anything pretty in his room, I like to be here best,” he said, lying back luxuriously among the bright cushions which his mother had ordered from the neighboring town. She opened her lips to speak, closed them again without a word. Denise was sitting alone one evening la the faded drawing-room when her husband came in. As a rule she saw very little of him; they seemed to avoid each other by tactic consent. “There is something I wish to say to you when you are at leisure,” he began. She thought how worn and gray he looked, though he was a man in the prime of life, as he stood before her, the bard light from the setting sun showing up the lines on his cold, stern face, as It showed up the patches of damp on the wall paper and the unloveliness of the beautifully designed room. He and it both seemed thrown away under their present circumstances. “I am quite at your service,” she answered. “Little Michael is in bed and asleep, and I have nothing to do.” “It is about him I wish to speak,” he said, as be sat d«wn. “He is almost well again now.” “He Is very delicate still,” she said quickly. “He needs a great deal of care —be could not stand much.” Could be mean that they wanted her no longer? she herself with a thrill of fear. “As you say, he needs a great deal of care.” he answered slowly. “He also needs more comfort and different surroundings to what I can give him. I have wondered —I have wondered,” he repeated, “if you would like to take him with you when you go?” “Like to take him?” she echoed, her face lighting up with joy. “Need you ask me?”

“No, perhaps not. I have thought that you seemed attached to him.” “Attached?” she repeated again with a laugh. “1 love him with all my heart. I couldn’t bear to be parted from him new. But don’t you mind?” looking at him with Inward resentment at his In-, difference. “Won’t you be very lonely without him?” ‘ “It will be best for the child to be with you for a time at least, I think, as you are willing to hnve him. As you say, be Is not strong enough to stand any shock, and be would miss you. I suppose your engagements will necessitate your returning to town socn?” “Yes, I ought to have gone before,” flushing at bis evidently anxlenty to get rid of her. “We will go aa soon as the doctor says he can travel.” Then as be was leaving the room, “I—l should like to thank you very much for trusting me —for letting me have him.” “There is no need. I have been thinking it over and It seems beat tor the boy*”, be answered, aa be dosed tbe door. • t “Of cotaae there would be no thought

of at* In It,” she said to beraelf blttea* ly> “I wonder why be ha tea mo ao much now? Once upon a time,” the rose color In her cheeke growing deeper, “I am sure he cared for me more than a little In his curloua restrained way.” It was still early when she went upstairs to bed, but she was tired of her own company. As she lit the candles the boy opened bis eyes—he slept In a little bed In heir room now—and called to her. o ,‘Tm not a bit sleepy. Come and talk to me, mother,” be said. She'sat down In the low cbalr and laid her head on his pillow as he liked to have her. “I’ve got something to tell you, sweetheart,” she said, tucking one of hie hands under her cheek. “What do you think iias happened? Yon are to come with me to mother’s home. How will you like that?” A wise and more prudent mother would have hesitated to excite the child at that hour, but Denise was a creature of Impulse. “Go away with you and see all the beautiful things you have told me about? Do yod really mean It, mother? How lovely!” springing up In bed with shining eye*. “And is father coming, too?” “Father does not want to come, darling.” The childish face grew grave. “It will be dull for father all alone here,” be said, seriously. “You ask him to come, mother; he’ll comefor you.” “Not for me, for me perhaps least of all,” she murmured, forgetting that she was talking to a child; but little Michael was wiser than his years. “Go, now, mother,” he said, coaxingly. “Try. Wait, I’ll toll you a secret; It can’t be wrong taiell you. Father keeps a picture of you locked up, I saw him looking at It one night, and—and," in an awed whisper, “he kissed it before he put it away. People must love a person very much to kiss their picture, •mustn’t they, mother?” Kisses had been rare luxuries in his life. “Kissed my picture? Are you sure, little Michael?” The child nodded, watching her intently. Denise thought of how she was going to make the desolate home more desolate, and the tears rushed to her eyes, “I’ll try, my sonny—-I’ll try for your sake” she cried, and she went from the room. Her heart was beating fast with fear and excitement as she hurried down the stairs before her courage failed her. What If he should be angry; what if he should repulse her? She shivered at the thought. She softly opened the library door, where he was in the habit of sitting at night. A lamp was burning dimly on the table In the center of the room, and Its light fell on the bowed head of a man; some books and papers bad been overturned as he threw out his arms, and mutely emphasized that aspect of despair. Denise forgot her fears. “Michael!” she cried in a sobbing voice, her arm round his neck, her cheek to his —“Michael; I’ve been a bad wife, but I want to be a better one. Will you take me back?” He looked up, aud she saw that his eyes were wet “Is that you?” he said, heavily. What Is it? —what has happened?” softly, “except that I have found out that.l want you. We both want you, little Michael and I. You won’t send us away—or you will come, too?” ' “Want me—you?" he said in a husky whisper. "Is It really true, Denise?” He held her In bis arms as one bolds something very precious that one is half afraid to touch. “I had almost given up praying and hoping.” Black and White.